YA The Boy on Cinnamon Street (9 page)

Chapter
Twenty

I walk toward the lit-up café. It is completely jammed with people, tons of kids from North and even a few from South. I recognize some parents and a few aunts and uncles. I can see Annais’s art teacher in there carrying an unlit pipe, wearing a beret, and chatting with Mrs. Elliot. I’m looking for Reni and Henderson. Where are they? I make my way to the refreshment table and there is Reni with an apron over her pink dress. She’s handing out lemonade punch. I go and stand behind the table with her. “Hey ho, Thumbelina, Benny’s going to love your dress,” she says.

“Did you ask your mom about that room in the basement? Did she say I could live in it? I mean, nobody’s using it, right?”

“I asked her. She said she’s using it for laundry.”

“Could I still move in there? I don’t take up much room.”

“My mom said maybe it’s not a good idea,” says Reni. “We’ll think of something else. Okay?”

Some high school kids in one corner near us are drinking Pepsi. Annais is standing with them and I see her take a big drink and then start laughing. She is wearing an awesome all-beaded layered dress and really high heels, and she has dark eyeliner all around her eyes. She looks over at me, and her hands form plump fists at her side, and her eyes look suddenly blackened for a fight. “What?” I say to Reni.

Reni shrugs her shoulders and says, “Don’t worry about it. Maybe she’s just like that because all her teachers are here. Even Mr. Wagner.”

“Oh, is that the teacher who loves that book
In the Road
?” I say.

“Yes,” says Reni. “And did you see who’s over there talking to him now?”

I look over at Mr. Wagner, and there is Benny McCartney. He’s wearing a white shirt and a necktie and he has the book
On the Road
in his arms. He’s kind of cradling it as he talks to the teacher. “
On the Road
,” I whisper to myself. “On. On. On. Not
in
. Okay?”

Annais swishes past the refreshment table and goes over to Mr. Wagner too, and the three of them start laughing.

Reni looks at me and goes, “What?”

“The pizza stalker looks nice in a necktie,” I say. At the same time I am saying that, I am feeling confused and mixed up. I keep watching Mr. Wagner and Benny and Annais. I didn’t realize Annais knew Benny. I mean, I didn’t think that they were in the same class.

From across the room, I can see crazy Henderson up on a ladder. I look over at him, and for some dumb reason, the song “Frosty the Snowman” comes into my head.
Frosty the Snowman was alive as you and me….
Henderson is going to be working the spotlights that will shine on the space at the microphone. He’s way up on the top of the ladder and he’s goofing off up there, acting like he’s going to fall, throwing his arms around and making silly faces. Then he waves to me. “Thumb!” he calls. And he smiles at me. He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and holds it up. It says in big letters,
KEEP HONKING. I’M RELOADING.

I frown at Henderson and I turn away, hoping Benny didn’t notice. Luckily, he’s still talking with Mr. Wagner and Annais. Reni and I start drinking lemonade. We both drink about five glasses. I mean, what else are you supposed to do at an art opening?

Suddenly, Benny is standing at the lemonade table. He’s right in front of me, holding out a cup. Reni elbows me. “Go on,” she says, “fill his cup. Thank him for the book.”

“Hey,” I go. “Thank you. I mean, thanks. Remember me, um, double cheese, double pepperoni, no onions?”

Benny smiles. “What, another customer of mine? This opening is full of my customers. You gotta forgive me; up here, I’m a big blur. Hey, I recognize her, though,” he says, pointing to Reni. “You’re Annais’s sister, right? Bumper sticker, right?” Reni looks sheepish and doesn’t answer. “I can’t remember faces,” he goes. “But jog my memory.”

“Fan club?? Biggest fan? Uh, South Pottsboro Avenue,” I say. “Third floor. Elevator building.”

“Oh, yeah. Duh. You’re the one who eats all that pizza. You order more pizza than Phi Sigma Delta over at Whitner. I’m not kidding. No offense, but for a little kid, that’s a lot of tomato sauce.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Don’t stop, though. It’s good. Pizza’s good stuff. Good for you. Lots of vitamins.” Then he stops and looks at me for a minute. “Oh yeah, now I’m remembering something else. My mother helped you one day last year. That green house on Cinnamon Street. My mother helped you. I was outside in the yard too. My mother did her best. Really. She felt really bad. Ever since then, it’s been empty, huh?”

“No, no, I don’t remember. I really don’t think that was me. No. It wasn’t. No. No. It wasn’t, not at all. No. Someone else. It was someone else.”

“Oh,” he goes, “well, then, sorry. Open mouth. Insert foot. Hey, is there any available lemonade or is this just, like, for display?”

“Oh, no, um, here,” I say, lifting the pitcher and trying to pour. My wrist feels useless and my heart has become a terrible boom box with cranked-up volume, blaring away in my rib cage. “Reni, can you do this for me?” I lean against the table. Reni pours the glass, and Benny carries the lemonade back over to Mr. Wagner.

I feel like someone just hit me over the head with a hammer. The kind Dr. Birpkin uses to test my reflexes. It’s a stupid bouncy little hammer that does absolutely nothing. Once he dropped it on the floor and it started bouncing around like crazy, like a little wild animal. But I feel like that hammer is inside my head now, pounding away, and I think to myself that I am not going to cry. In my mind I reach for my book,
Thumbelina: A Fairy Tale.
I turn the pages. I see the fat mole wearing a bow tie, the noisy rat in the tall reeds, the angry flock of crows circling above, the poor pink-breasted bird in the tunnel, lying as if dead in the soft gray dust. My head spins. I begin to drink lemonade. One glass after another.

Mr. Elliot comes by to get some lemonade. He looks at me and Reni, and I’m thinking to myself, “Don’t say it.” But he does. “Abbott and Costello!” he goes. “Having fun?”

“Oh, Thumbelina, I’m sorry,” whispers Reni. “I’m really sorry. I got it wrong. It was my fault. It was my mistake. I was so sure.”

Mrs. Elliot brushes by us, saying, “I’m going to start now, Guy.” Guy is Mr. Elliot’s first name. Guy is a nice guy. Ha ha. I’m not going to cry. No reason to cry. Guy won’t cry, so why should I? Mr. Elliot signals to Henderson, who switches on the spotlight, and Mrs. Elliot walks over and holds her arms up at the audience in front of her like a politician. “Good evening, everyone!” The crowd cheers. “This is YOUR celebration as much as it is Annais’s. This is about each and every one of YOU.”

Someone shouts out, “Love you, Mrs. Elliot!”

“I’m going to start by saying that I want to encourage anyone who wants to come up here and talk about this show and my daughter Annais. You may have a poem about her work, you may want to comment, and I encourage this kind of involvement. I, for one, have watched Annais develop over the years. I have seen her talents coming to fruition. Can we give a round of applause for my Annais Elliot? I want to introduce my whole family to you now. Will my other daughter come up and my husband, and my son is over there doing the lights. As a family, we’d like to say thank you all for coming tonight.” I look up at Mrs. Elliot as she hugs Annais. Reni is up there standing next to Mr. Elliot. Henderson just waves from his ladder perch. Someone takes a photo of The Elliot Family.

I stand back here with both hands flat on the table. Mrs. Elliot did not invite me to come up as one of her daughters, even though I helped with the show. Even though I’m there all the time. Even though I am sure I was born into that family. She must have forgotten. I must have slipped her mind for a moment.

Mrs. Elliot waves to the crowd like a president’s wife and then walks away from the microphone, her family following her. The crowd cheers again. I look at Reni and she raises her eyebrows at me and tries to send me some kind of wordless Reni message.

“Reni,” I whisper when she gets back to the table, “your mom didn’t mention me. She forgot to mention me. I’m like a daughter too, aren’t I?”

Reni looks down at her lemonade. “Course you are,” she says. “Don’t feel bad about Benny. That was my fault.”

For some dumb reason, I feel shaky and like I need to sit down. There are so many people in here and I forgot to eat anything before I left the condo. It feels like my eyes have tears in them. I take my hand and brush at my eyes and then I think I might have smeared my eye makeup. I pick up a napkin and start dabbing away at my eyes, but a stream of water keeps coming. Reni hands me a glass of lemonade and I gulp the whole thing. Then I knock over Reni’s glass by mistake and lemonade spills all over my dress. I try to wipe up the lemonade, but I can feel the cold wetness seeping and spreading against my body.

Some kid from South goes up to the microphone and says, “Hey, I’ve been going over to the Elliots’ house for, like, two years and I love Annais’s paintings.” The crowd laughs and the kid struts back and forth in the spotlight for a minute. But then he can’t think of anything else to say. He just stands there looking stunned and pleased, basking in the glow of the spotlight.

Mr. Prigget, an art teacher from North, goes up and takes the microphone and says, “As you can imagine, I’m very proud indeed of Annais’s paintings. I remember when she first came into my class and how much she’s changed since then. By the way, I’d like to mention that I’m having a show at the Pottsboro Watercolor Club, and all are invited next Friday. For some, it’s required. Six p.m. Friday, and if the
Pottsboro Shopping Guide
people are here for a review, you are also welcome to my show. Thank you.”

Mrs. Cameron, an English teacher at North, comes up to the front of the audience and says, “Poets? Where are my poets? Anyone from 208 want to read one of their poems?”

“I do, Mrs. Cameron,” says a girl with a blond ponytail. She comes up to the microphone and reads a poem about the end of summer and birds flying south. The poem has absolutely nothing to do with the paintings or Annais, but everyone applauds, and one of her friends calls out, “Go for it, Sandy Rolly!”

Then I see Benny McCartney moving up through the crowd. For a second, I think he is coming back toward the lemonade table, and my heart starts pounding and I feel dizzy, like I just did too many aerial cartwheels too fast, but he swerves and moves toward the microphone. I kind of lean against Reni. Henderson puts a weird green filter on the spotlight, so as Benny steps before the microphone, he has a green sickly cast to his face. I make an attempt to glare at Henderson, but I figure I’m lost in the darkened crowd. Benny stands there, and for a moment he sort of laughs and looks at the audience. Somebody shouts out, “Hey, Benny, make that a double cheese with anchovies.”

Benny laughs again with the crowd. And then he clears his throat and says, “Annais.” And then he holds up
On the Road
and shakes it in the air. Annais starts laughing. And Mr. Wagner starts clapping in a big exaggerated way to get everybody else started. Soon the whole room is clapping, and my cheeks are getting hot and I feel like maybe dizzy or off balance or something. Then Benny says, “I learned from reading
On the Road
, and from Mr. Wagner, that taking risks is sometimes optional but always admirable. So. Okay, here’s my poem.” He takes a deep breath and then he begins.

The whole room seems to swoon, to rise like a great swollen wave, like a wave on Lake Mescopi when the police boat came through in the rain to ask my mother why we were sitting there with water in our boat. Everyone goes, “Ooooooh!” and then they start cheering again. The noise pounds in my ears.

Annais turns toward me for a split second and she laughs and throws her hands up in the air. Then she walks over and smiles at Benny and he takes her hand and smiles back at her. Everyone starts clapping again. Suddenly, I feel like I can’t breathe. The air is going into my mouth and then it won’t go down any farther. I push past Reni and knock over a pitcher of lemonade. I stumble through the noisy crowd and scramble for the door. My head is spinning and I’m afraid I am going to fall or faint or throw up.

Finally, I get outside. It’s raining even harder now. I run down the street. Cars rush past me, blowing rain all over my skirt and legs. I run through a muddy, cold puddle, and water pours into my shoes.
My mom is sitting in the rowboat. Her shoes are resting in the pool of water in the bottom of the boat.
A truck swishes past and street water splashes all over me, even hitting my face. My crown of flowers falls off into the darkness. I hear it land in the gutter. I hear the gutters roaring with water, screaming with rain, like deep inside the town, the hollow underground pipes are crying. The rain echoes above me and below me and around me. Everything is drowning and being sucked away into the drain, and the water keeps battering away at me, at the street, at the sidewalks, and I keep running.

Chapter
Twenty-one

When I get to Cinnamon Street, I break one of the panes of glass in the back door and then I reach in and I unlock the door and turn the knob. I throw myself down on the living room floor.
My mom is sitting in the rowboat. There is water all over her shoes. I am sitting with her and I know. I know what she is going to do. I call out, “Mommy, don’t. Please, please don’t.” It’s because of my father. It’s because he left us. He went away to New York to be with other people. Strangers to
us. He forgot he was married to my mother. When you get married, it should be forever and ever and ever and ever, like the ceremony says. A father should not go away and leave his real wife and real daughter in a rowboat in the rain on Lake Mescopi.

I want my mom. I want her back. Now. I need her now. I want back the way she tucked me in bed at night. I want the way she held me when she sang “Oh Stars in the Sky.” I can remember her singing. I was looking out at the sky. I saw the great huge blackness of the night and the little lights of hope everywhere. I thought that feeling would stay with me forever, that my mom would rock me and sing to me forever and ever and ever.

Why does everybody in the world get what they want except me? Why does Merit Madson get what she wants? Why does Annais get what she wants? Why do Grandma and Grandpa and Reni and even Henderson, why do they all get what they want? Why can’t I even have a mom and a dad and a house and a school I want? Other kids have that. Lots of kids, probably millions of them. Why can’t I? Why can’t I be tall? Why did all that have to happen? Why was it Benny McCartney who was there that day, of all the people in the world?

My mom and dad used to take me to gymnastics meets. My dad loved it. My mom made cookies for the refreshment stand. When I went to see my dad in New York City, he didn’t even ask me one thing about gymnastics. He didn’t ask if I finally got the double back handspring back tuck down. I could have done round off handsprings across his big beautiful honeymoon suite apartment, but he didn’t even ask.

I look at her bedroom door. I do not want to open that door. No, I don’t want to remember my mom lying there. I was screaming. I screamed and screamed, and a neighbor heard me and came to see what was wrong. I ran outside and I climbed that big tree. I went up there into the top branches. I climbed so high I could see all the world from there. There was a dark red sunset all smeared across the sky. I hid up there in the tree when the ambulance came. I saw them go into the house. I saw them take my mom away on a stretcher. She didn’t move when they carried her out of the house.

I hid up there until night, when I saw all the stars and lights of the city and it was cold and my arms ached. I held on to the tree, but I was shivering and shaking and people were calling for me. They called Louise, Louise, Louise. I heard them but I didn’t answer.

Finally, Grandpa got there and he heard me crying. He climbed up into the tree. They had ladders and lights and sirens, but Grandpa climbed up on his own for me and when he saw me, he said, “Oh, Louise, let me hold you. Let me hold you.” And I let him hold me way high up in that big dark gnarled tree. I never knew grandpas cried. I never saw a grandpa cry before. He cried like a kindergartner.

And then he carried me down out of the tree. He carried me past all the men in firemen’s hats, past flashing lights and lines of people. My grandpa carried me to his car and we drove away. And as we were driving, I fell asleep, and while I was sleeping, I was kind of forgetting everything. Everything. Everything. Everything. But not really. No, not really.

I stand up now and turn around the room. The light from the streetlamps comes through the curtains as I move toward the shut bedroom door. I take the door handle and turn it and walk in. The bedroom is empty. There is nothing in there at all. The streetlight falls through the window. I go to sit on the floor where the edge of the bed used to be.

The cars on the street swish by. Their lights run up the walls and drop away, making strange patterns on the floor and on my arms in the darkness. I am never leaving this house. I’m not going back to that art opening. Mrs. Elliot is not my mother. Mr. Elliot is not my father. This is my mother. This. Here. She wanted freedom from her life. This is what she wanted. I sit on the floor and cry until I have cried more tears than the rain falling outside.

After a while, I hear a noise in the house. Footsteps brush across the floor. And I look up and see a large shadow in the doorway. I look up, but I cannot tell who is there, and then another car swishes by outside and lights up the walls and I see it’s Henderson. He sits down on the floor beside me and he puts his arm around me and I lean on his flannel shoulder. For a long time we don’t speak at all.

Finally I say, “My mother killed herself. She died in this room here. Benny McCartney’s mother was walking by outside. She heard me screaming. She came to help. She called the ambulance.” Henderson lets me sob against his shoulder, all the while cars flash by outside and their lights ride up and down the lace curtains at the windows. The lights slide across the room and then retreat. They roll over our faces as we sit on the dark floor on Cinnamon Street.

“Everybody hates me. Annais hates me. Benny hates me. And Merit Madson and Janie Brevette hate me. They hate me because I’m small. Because I look like a grade school kid. Because I won’t grow and I’m just not cool and grown-up-looking and because I don’t have a mother and a father. That’s why they hate me. That’s why they wanted me off the gymnastics team. Because I’m so small and stupid-looking and because I have no parents,” I say.

“No, Thumb. That’s not why,” says Henderson. “Don’t you know why?”

“No,” I say.

“They wanted you off the team because they are
jealous
of you. You’re too good at gymnastics. When I first saw you, I couldn’t believe how graceful and quick you were. And you’re beautiful. You are beautiful, Thumb.”

“No,” I say. “I’m not.”

“Yes,” says Henderson. “You are beautiful. Don’t you think I would know?”

“I am?” I say and I look back at Henderson, and his face in the light from the streetlamp is softly pale and glowing. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says.

I push my head into his shoulder. “Oh, Henderson, you’re such a good friend. The best friend I have ever had.” Henderson leans his head on top of my head and keeps his arms around me.

I can’t remember how long we stay there, but finally we walk back to the party in the darkness, the trees above us full of wind and blowing rain. The streets and sidewalks are strewn with shattered twigs and leaves and tiny pieces of broken things that somehow got pulled apart by the rain and wind.

The opening is mostly over when we get there. Thank goodness. My grandma is sitting in the car, waiting for me, and she beeps the horn from the parking lot across the way and waves. I button up my jacket and head across the shiny wet street. “Henderson, thank you,” I call.

And he calls back, “Thumbelina?”

And I go, “What?” And he just stands there and doesn’t say anything.

My grandma drives the car to South Pottsboro in silence. She doesn’t try to impress me with any loud rock music. She doesn’t try to ask me about what happened. She seems somehow to know. How does my grandma know everything? It’s weird. I just sit there quietly beside her and we put the heater on high to help dry out my soaking shoes and my ice-cold dress.

When I get home, my grandpa says, “How’s our party girl?” And then his face falls, collapses into millions of pieces, the way everything seemed to crumble and disintegrate in that movie
Thelma and Louise.
I go in my room and close the door.

I am still shivering and I feel like I have a sore throat. My forehead feels hot. I unbutton my wet jacket. I am feeling very feverish. I have chills and I lie down and pull a cover over me, still wearing my wet dress. Next to me on the pillow is my favorite book in the whole world. I have read it every night since I got it.
Thumbelina: A Fairy Tale.
I pick it up and look at the beautiful cover. And then I remember Henderson holding me in the shadowy room on Cinnamon Street, the soft brush of his flannel shirt, his sad steady eyes. In a haze of fever, I say out loud, “Benny didn’t send me this book. Henderson sent it.”